Coreb. 
Come, Fabell, hast thou done?

Fabell. 
Yes, yes; come hither.

Coreb. 
Fabell, I cannot.

Fabell. 
Cannot?—­What ails your hollownes?

Coreb. 
Good Fabell, help me.

Fabell. 
Alas, where lies your grief?  Some Aqua-vitae! 
The Devil’s very sick, I fear he’ll die,
For he looks very ill.

Coreb. 
Darst thou deride the minister of darkness? 
In Lucifer’s dread name Coreb conjures thee
To set him free.

Fabell. 
I will not for the mines of all the earth,
Unless thou give me liberty to see
Seven years more, before thou seize on me.

Coreb. 
Fabell, I give it thee.

Fabell. 
Swear, damned fiend.

Coreb. 
Unbind me, and by hell I will not touch thee,
Till seven years from this hour be full expired.

Fabell. 
Enough, come out.

Coreb. 
A vengeance take thy art! 
Live and convert all piety to evil: 
Never did man thus over-reach the Devil. 
No time on earth like Phaetontique flames
Can have perpetual being.  I’ll return
To my infernall mansion; but be sure,
Thy seven years done, no trick shall make me tarry,
But, Coreb, thou to hell shalt Fabell carry.

[Exit.]

Fabell. 
Then thus betwixt us two this variance ends,
Thou to thy fellow Fiends, I to my friends.

[Exit.]

ACT I.

Scene I. The George Inn, Waltham.

[Enter Sir Arthur Clare, Dorcas, his Lady, Milliscent, his daughter, young Harry Clare; the men booted, the gentlewomen in cloaks and safeguards.  Blague, the merry host of the George, comes in with them.]

Host. Welcome, good knight, to the George at Waltham, my free-hold, my tenements, goods and chattels.  Madam, here’s a room is the very Homer and Iliad of a lodging, it hath none of the four elements in it; I built it out of the Center, and I drink ne’er the less sack.  Welcome, my little waste of maiden-heads!  What?  I serve the good Duke of Norfolk.

Clare. 
God a mercy, my good host Blague: 
Thou hast a good seat here.

Host. Tis correspondent or so:  there’s not a Tartarian nor a Carrier shall breath upon your geldings; they have villainous rank feet, the rogues, and they shall not sweat in my linen.  Knights and Lords too have been drunk in my house, I thank the destinies.

Harry.  Pre’ thee, good sinful Innkeeper, will that corruption, thine Ostler, look well to my gelding.  Hay, a pox a these rushes!

Host. You Saint Dennis, your gelding shall walk without doors, and cool his feet for his masters sake.  By the body of S. George, I have an excellent intellect to go steal some venison:  now, when wast thou in the forest?